


The Waves of Life

by Rae94



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:26:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2708951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rae94/pseuds/Rae94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do two people who are so different find themselves drawn to one another? This takes place in the early days of Valka and Stoick's relationship. Before he became chief, before her loyalties changed, they each found something in the other worth clinging to. (Will eventually be six to seven chapters long. Title may change.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waves of Life

In the midst of the shouting, the roaring, the crackling of torches, Stoick stumbled into the Healer's lodge. His right arm clutched to his side, he groped in the low light. Sweeping his good arm desperately back and forth, he could hear the clatter of various instruments and vessels toppling to the floor, and he swore through gritted teeth. Finally, his hand closed on a roll of soft linen, and he set to work clumsily wrapping his bloodied forearm, letting out a hiss of pain or a curse occasionally as he went. He was tying off the end of the bandage and was just about to rip it from the remaining roll when a voice rang out from the doorway.

"And just what do you think you're doing?"

With the beacons shining behind, he could only make out the speaker's silhouette, slight and tall and obviously female, and the glow of her auburn hair as firelight bounced off of the top of her head.

"Just taking care of a scratch," he responded. "Sorry about the mess. I'll come back and help you clean it up as soon as I put a stop to this attack." He made for the door, but she extended her arms to block him.

"Let me see," she demanded.

Stoick couldn't help but let out a short laugh at her attempt to stop him. He was easily twice her size and bound in muscle where she was lean. There was no way in Hel she was going to keep him from leaving by force.

"I give you my word: I'll be back."

"And I give you mine: you're not leaving until I've had a look at your arm."

He drew himself up to his full height, as was his habit when someone stood in his way. "Do you know who I am?"

"Aye, and you won't be of any use to your father or his warriors with your hammer-arm all cut up! Now let. Me. See." Her tone was firm. Her gaze never wavered. Although she was at least a head shorter than he was, Stoick felt like a child scolded by his mother, whom he knew to be right.

He supposed it couldn't hurt to let her look.

Without a word, he backed into the lodge. The young woman hastily lit a few lamps, and for the first time, he got a good look at her face. It was heart-shaped and longish, with a straight and sloping nose that ended with a slightly turned-up tip. Her skin was smooth, and Stoick saw now that she was a great deal younger than she sounded. Her eyes were green—no, blue—he couldn't tell in the flickering light. Her mouth was closed, lips tight as a bowstring, which was fitting considering how she had just let her words fly at him like arrows. They hit their mark unerringly.

She gestured to a bench, and Stoick sat. After rinsing her hands in a basin of water, she pulled up a stool on his right side and he extended his arm to her. His face was a rictus of pain, but he tried to arrange it in a look of determined defiance. With expert fingers, she began to unwrap his bunched bandage, and he pretended not to hear her snort nor see her smirk at his awful attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

When she finally uncovered the wound, her face betrayed no surprise. Neither did her voice as she spoke her verdict.

"It will need sutures." She stood immediately to gather the necessary supplies from where they laid on the floor.

Stoick groaned in frustration. "Can't this wait?"

"No, it can't. It's far too deep. And I'll need to mix a poultice to stave off infection."

"That will take too much time," he protested. "They need me out there now."

"This tribe got along just fine before you came along, and they'll get along fine once you're gone. Which will be a whole lot sooner than necessary unless I get this done now."

"How do I know you're not some over-eager apprentice just wanting to look like the hero?" Stoick pointed out. "Where's your mistress? I want her opinion first."

"She's tending to two nasty concussions and three burns by a collapsed catapult. But by all means, let me bring her over here to deal with what you so obviously believe to be a scratch." She wielded her sarcasm like a practiced swordswoman.

Already, he could hear the sounds of wings flapping in retreat, and some celebratory shouting arose from the plaza.

"Oh, would you listen to that?" she said, putting a hand up to her ear and cocking her head comically. "It seems that people can manage without you for five minutes. And now we have plenty of time to do this right." She handed him a large, brimming mug of ale. "Down that quickly, please. The gods know you can."

Stoick scoffed at her comment and remarked, "Your bedside manner needs some work," before downing the liquid in a trice.

She ignored him haughtily as she pulled up a small table and laid out her equipment. He heard the slosh of a bowl of water as she placed it down, and she uttered low, "This is going to sting a bit."

He chuckled at her maternal warning, but found his laughter cut off in a hiss as a sharp sensation ran up his arm.

She glanced quickly up at him. "I told you."

He merely looked away sulkily. As she continued to clean, he set his jaw against the pain. He decided that he needed some distraction from the feeling.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Valka."

"I'm Stoick."

"I know." Her voice was terse, revealing an ego still smarting from his comments.

"I'd say nice to meet you, but under the circumstances…" A short laugh like a hum issued from her drawn lips. When she didn't respond, he spoke again.

"I'm sorry I was so stubborn there."

"Oh, it's just another day at work for me," Valka said, waving off his apology. "Everyone is always coming in, 'Oh, it's only a little cut, gimme a bandage and I'll go,' no one wanting to admit they might actually need some serious help. Mulish, the lot of them."

"Well, there's the pot calling the kettle black."

This time her lips parted when she laughed, and the sound came forth like rushing water. "I suppose you're right."

She withdrew the damp cloth, and he felt a dry one replace it.

"Are you alright to look at it?" she asked him.

He looked at her incredulously.

"I don't mean to insult you! I could name half a dozen warriors in this village who put on a brave face but swoon when they see their own blood. I only want you to see how lucky you got."

Stoick sighed and turned to look at his arm. Now that it was cleaner, it didn't look half as gruesome, but he could also see just how deep the gash went. Valka rolled up her own sleeve and touched her slender arm to illustrate as she explained his injury to him.

"Now, this slice just missed all these lovely tendons and blood vessels here in your forearm. Just an inch over and you might not have made it all the way here before you lost consciousness. The fact that you're so muscular helps and hurts you. On the one hand, you've got so much substance to your limb, it takes a lot of pressure to get to all the good stuff. On the other hand, more muscle means more blood flowing into the area, so it makes a real mess when you get cut. It's a wash, really. But obviously neither Freyja nor Odin wanted you just yet."

He stared at her wonderingly. Her tone was so matter-of-fact, so sure. She had a ready mind, obviously, and a tongue that could keep up. She stared back at him until he let his gaze drop, embarrassed, to their arms, side by side. Hers was strong and fine next his own great solid tree branch.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"Don't thank me just yet." She let out a heavy sigh. "Let me get you another ale."

She stood and refilled his cup.

From the corner where the keg stood, she asked, "Do you want some leather to bite down on? Or would you rather be able to yell?"

"Actually, I think the talking helps, if it's all the same to you."

"If you say so," she shrugged, handing him the mug carefully. He downed it again as she threaded her needle.

"Don't watch this," she instructed him solemnly.

Stoick let out a cry as he felt the fine poke and push of the needle in his skin, and his eyes began to water. He decided that now would be an excellent time to start talking.

"How old are you, exactly?" he said, a little more loudly than was appropriate.

"Are you questioning my qualifications?" she shot back.

"No! Only wondering."

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen?!"

"I know," she smiled, "Practically an old maid, right?"

Stoick backtracked quickly. "That's not what I meant at all. You just have this—mnn!..quality. You look young, but you speak with such—ah!…authority." His own speech was punctuated by grunts and groans as her needle wove back and forth.

"And how old are you, now?" she asked.

"Twenty-seven."

"Ah, then I could say the opposite of you. You're older, but you speak like a teenager with an attitude problem." Valka grinned up at him through dark lashes, and he couldn't help but chuckle a bit through gritted teeth. Her eyes glowed with the warmth of the joke, like a friend needling him over a drink.

"How come I never see you in the village?" he asked. "I thought I knew everyone there was to know."

"I'm often grounded," she said disinterestedly.

"What?"

"My father says I have 'a tendency toward insubordination' that I need to be cured of." Stoick laughed again as her voice rumbled in imitation of a middle-aged man.

"Now where could he have gotten that idea?" he teased genially.

She smiled. "So I'm basically always here or at home. Or else everyone thinks I'm here or at home."

"When did you start apprenticing the healer?" Stoick asked.

"Three years back," she said.

"Only three years?" he said, before he could stop himself. "But you're practically an expert!"

"Being constantly grounded has its perks," she mused, "lots of study time being one of them." She patted his palm, and he looked down to see that she was done already.

"Odin's beard," he breathed. "That was fast." He examined the stitches closer, even and taught. "And good."

Valka paid no attention to his praise, but instead went straight to work mixing various herbs into a bowl at a table against the wall. Her hands moved gracefully and purposefully as she worked, her eyes barely looking to see what she was reaching for. She didn't count or measure, but seemed to know instinctively how much of each ingredient was necessary.

"I'll bet you're a fantastic cook," Stoick remarked.

She stopped suddenly, and looked over her shoulder at him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. "You'd lose that bet." In a flash, she had turned back to her work, and Stoick could hear the grinding of mortar and pestle. The sound set his teeth on edge.

"You can't take a compliment, can you?" he reproved.

"Not one I don't earn. You've never tasted my cooking, and gods willing, you'll never have to." Valka took her seat again with a bowl and a roll of fresh bandages, and immediately began to apply the viscous substance to his sewn-up wound. He expected it to sting again, but found the mixture rather pleasant and cooling on his sore skin. "Medicine doesn't have to look pretty or taste good," she went on, "it only has to work. And my medicines always work." It wasn't bragging, Stoick noted; it was only plainspoken truth. She began to cover the wound with the bandage, wrapping far more evenly than he ever could. "The other stuff, I'm not so good at."

They sat in silence for a few moments as she finished the bandage off. The sky was tinged pink with the early dawn, and some lark began to vocalize in the woods. Stoick watched Valka's face relax as her concentration ebbed. She looked up at him with a smile.

"Now," she said, "was that so bad?"

He only shook his head.

She patted his hand once more before she swept away her things and set to straightening up.

"Don't get those stitches wet," she instructed, "and you can take the bandages off in three days. Come back and see me in ten days and I'll take them out." She left out a breath, and said, "It'll scar, I'm sorry to say."

"Well," Stoick conceded, "at least I'll have a good story to tell about the stubborn, sarcastic, scrawny girl who sewed me up."

Valka's eyebrows shot up in offense. "Girl?"

He couldn't help but laugh. "Woman, then." She smiled back, but her eyes betrayed a bit of sadness.

"It was a Monstrous Nightmare, wasn't it? Got you with its hook?"

"Yes."

"And did it get away?"

Stoick looked at his feet. "Yes."

"Hey," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "So did you."

He smiled at her again. "Thank you. And I'm sorry. F-for everything." 

His uncharacteristic stammer struck Valka more deeply than she expected. "Yeah, me too."

Stoick walked out without another word.

As he headed up the hill towards his family home, he couldn't help but look back at the healer's lodge. A figure burst out the back and high-tailed it into the woods. He wanted to follow, but the tasks he knew awaited him forced him to continue the climb. For a few beautiful moments, all that responsibility had seemed to disappear completely.

Ten days was going to be a long time to wait.

**Author's Note:**

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